The Avenger 23 - The Wilder Curse Read Free Page B

was—I guess he must have looked like this man Phelan does. That’s why I thought The Avenger ought to be told about it. Mr. Moran—a good friend of mine who works in the Thornton Heights office—called the police. But I came here to tell Mr. Benson, too. I thought he might be interested.”
    “I think he’ll be very interested, indeed,” said the giant Smitty grimly. “We’ll get him and hustle out to Thornton Heights at once.”

CHAPTER III

Through a Corn Cutter
    The Avenger was interested. Very much so. In an incredibly short time after Smitty got in touch with him, he was at the Thornton Heights central building, in the basement office, with two of the plain-clothesmen who guarded Phelan’s body.
    Dick Benson, better known as The Avenger, was not the kind of man you’d expect to see after hearing such fantastic tales about him. You’d expect a giant, someone as big as Smitty himself. You’d expect someone with great bunches of muscle sticking out in all directions.
    The Avenger didn’t look like that at all. He was only of average height, about five feet eight. His weight was average, too, about a hundred and sixty-five pounds. His body was rather slim, if anything. But when you watched him move, you saw that he got around like lightning, and soon you realized the truth. A few rare individuals seem to have muscle of a special quality, so that it is thrice as strong as ordinary muscle. And The Avenger was one of these few.
    He entered the little office with his cat’s tread, with Nellie and Smitty close behind. Myra Horton stayed outside. She didn’t want to see any more of that body than she already had.
    “Mr. Benson!” said one of the detectives respectfully, seeing the pale, enigmatic eyes and the close-cropped cap of virile black hair. “Glad you’re interesting yourself in this. It’s sure a funny-looking corpse we got here.”
    Smitty thought the use of the word “funny” was pretty far out of line. But The Avenger said nothing; he never said anything unless he had something important to say.
    The glacial eyes of the famous crime fighter rested inscrutably on the body.
    Tim Phelan did indeed look as if he had been run through a corn cutter. The clothes were two thirds ripped off of him, as if by many fangs. His body was as torn up as if a pack of starving wolves had had access to it.
    “What have you found out about this murder?” asked The Avenger.
    “Nothing,” said the detective, with dismal honesty. He would later tell the press that the case was developing satisfactorily, but he wouldn’t try to pull that kind of line with someone like Dick Benson.
    “A Mr. Carl Foley, one of the executives of this real-estate development, was murdered in this neighborhood recently, I believe,” said The Avenger.
    “Yes, sir,” said the detective. “I was on that little job, too. Foley’s body looked just like this. Enough to haunt your dreams.”
    “By now, you’ve got a complete dossier on Foley?”
    “Yes, sir. Pretty complete,” said the detective.
    “You think, too, that maybe the two murders tie in together?”
    The Avenger didn’t give an opinion. He said, “In the records on Foley, is there any account of his having been, at some time or other, in the Orient?”
    Smitty and little Nellie looked at each other. The question seemed odd to them. Apparently, it did to the detective, too. He looked puzzled as he answered:
    “Nope. From all accounts, Foley was never out of New York State. Lived around here all his life. One of our few real New Yorkers. Why?”
    Benson didn’t say why. His steely, slender fingers were deftly separating the dead man’s shirt over the chest. In a moment, a picture was exposed on the skin there. It was a tattooed picture of a snake coiled up a pole. Beside this was a ship’s anchor, with a bit of hawser twined around it.
    “Looks as if this man has been to the Orient,” Smitty said, hopeful of getting at what Benson had in mind. “Looks as if he’d